I Promised You
by curlylinguist
Summary: At the age of 20 Sherlock contracts HIV. When he's 33 he meets John. Johnlock. Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

**I Promise**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Inspired by The Normal Heart, but by no means a crossover. This is not a happy story. It doesn't have a happy ending. I'm sorry. **

**Trigger warnings: drugs, non-consensual drug taking, attempted rape.**

**Chapter 1:**

It wouldn't have happened had he been sober.

If he'd been sober, he'd have seen them approach. If he'd been sober, he'd have made some scathing remark about the tall one's acne or the fat one's halitosis; he'd have deduced exactly what they were planning and scared them off with sneering threats of what Mycroft would do to them if they were stupid enough to go through with it.

If he'd been sober, they'd have left him alone.

But he hadn't been sober. Not by a long shot. After all, the body is merely the transport of the mind. The body doesn't matter so long as the mind can thrive. And if it's necessary to sacrifice the body for the sake of the mind, then so be it. The body is simply transport. The mind is an engine and all engines need fuel.

They'd found him in a dank corner of a seedy club on the outskirts of the city. He'd just scored a hit from one of the only dealers in London his meddlesome brother hadn't managed to pay off yet. It had cost him an arm and a leg near enough, but it had been worth it in the end; the satisfying prick of the fresh needle (always new, always clean) deep in his veins, the angle precisely calculated to ensure maximum immediate effect, the euphoric feel of the oncoming high as his heart began to pound, circulating the drug round his system with each speeding, syncopated beat, endorphins rushing to his brain.

He was alive. Invincible. He found himself swaying along to the music, completely out of time, with a manic grin plastered across his face.

Ah, cocaine. The perfect way to clear his mind. For once everything was blissfully silent inside his head; he was finally able to ignore the instantaneous deductions caused by a mere glance around the room. He just wanted to forget for a while, pretend he was normal. Wasn't that what being young was supposed to be like? Parties, music, dancing, drinking and drugs…

He swiped vaguely at his sweat-drenched hair, attempting to push it out of his eyes, before raising his arms up above his head and staggering along to the music. There were people surrounding him but it didn't matter anymore. His usual claustrophobia and intense hatred of being enclosed in a large crowd were practically non-existent. Where normally his brain would go into overdrive, compelling him to deduce everything about everyone in the space of just a few seconds, resulting in hyperactivity, panic and even migraines, the effect of the cocaine was astonishing.

Silence.

Pure, unadulterated silence. A feeling of such calm in some parts of the brain, yet a fierce compulsion to be active in other areas. Dance, for example.

Somewhere deep in the last remaining rational part of Sherlock's brain, a small voice was wondering whether this was what it's like to be normal.

The song was changing now, the bass dropping, reverberating through his entire body; he could feel it in his pulsing in his chest. He let it carry him along, or was that just the endless sea of people swamping him?

Out of nowhere there was a girl draping herself across his chest, pressing herself hard against him. He must've done something to encourage her (though he couldn't possibly think what) because without any further preamble, she put her sticky arms around his neck and ran her sweaty hands through his damp curls, giggling as she pressed sloppy kisses along his jawline. It was a funny sensation, Sherlock thought to himself. All wet and slimy. He held himself awkwardly, hands hanging limply by his sides, curiously permitting her touch, but by no means leaning into it. He didn't know what to do. Wasn't sure if he even wanted her to do it. No one had ever tried to do something like that before. He just wanted to dance more! The whole point of coming here was to reboot his mind, not to engage in the tiring frivolities of sex and other such complicated relations. Besides, he wasn't even sure if he was attracted to women. He was celibate by choice, after all, not through lack of desire and on the very few occasions thus far when _those _particular urges arose and refused to be ignored, it was always an anonymous male that took shape in his fantasies…

Stop! Now is definitely not the time to experiment. He shook himself and tried to pull away, but the pressure of her hands on his shoulders was too powerful and he found himself being steered towards the bar.

"Let's take this somewhere else, shall we?" She told him coyly, looking up at him through her thick, dark eyelashes. He could feel her warm breath on his cheek and against his ear. He decided it was a highly repulsive sensation and immediately made to pull out of her embrace.

"Buy me a drink then, sexy, come on!" She shouted over the din. Now that he was moving away from her, she was coming into focus more clearly. Her lipstick (a garish shade of bright pink) was smeared across her chin and her eyebrows seemed to be melting inwards. She looked decisively unappealing.

"No, thanks." Sherlock tried to say, but he didn't think it came out quite right, because suddenly she was crowding him again, trying to smear herself and her hideous, sticky lipstick all over him. There was a hand sliding down his chest as though in slow-motion, steadily heading lower and lower, pausing on his belt buckle, before-

"Stop it!" He cried, and shoved hard at her shoulders, dislodging her hand and watching dumbly as she fell down in front of him and burst into tears. _What a strange thing to do, _Sherlock thought as he stumbled off again to re-join the dancers, _why would she want to touch him _there_? They were strangers! He didn't even know her name! Mummy and Dad always said you had to be in love to do -_ THAT - _and he definitely wasn't in love with her.._.

Upon re- joining the throng, he forgot about lipstick-girl and her poor attempts at seduction almost immediately. There were much more important things to think about, like dancing. Feeling the music thrum through his whole body, letting it carry him off to oblivion. He loved dancing. The sheer freedom of it, of letting go.

He remembered letting his eyes drift closed, swaying peacefully to himself once more, hearing the loud, slurring voices of those around him as they tried to sing along, feeling the beat vibrate through him, but mostly, of course, the blissful, mind-numbing pleasure of the drug flooding his veins. The songs were beginning to blur into one, just a mass of beat, rhythm and electric sound and it was as though he was floating through it all, on a fluffy, white cloud high above.

It was the tiny, yet sharp pinprick, deep in the left side of his neck and the subsequent harsh, unstoppable pressure of fluid being injected into him that brought him back to earth again, if only for a few unsteady moments.

It was as though time had frozen. The chilled air, fresh on his face, coupled with the unsavoury scent of tobacco and stale piss told him that he was somehow outside. He was kneeling on the hard, wet ground, his vision was blocked by the tall man standing in front of him holding his head out of the way in order to access his neck where, as he looked down, Sherlock could see the plunger of a needle slowly moving further down and driving the unknown substance into him. He was suddenly aware of the very large man pinning both of his bony wrists high up behind his back and the searing agony along both arms.

With a startled yelp, he began to struggle blearily against his assailants, trying to throw them both off at once, but it was impossible, his body refused to do what he told it and he only ended up pushing the needle in deeper. The pain in his neck had increased twofold and he could feel his papery skin beginning to tear as warm blood started to ooze down his throat and onto his shirt collar. There were tears prickling behind his eyes and he cried out again, uncomprehendingly calling for help. In the struggle his arms had been yanked so far up his back that they were supporting most of his weight. He could barely move a muscle as the last millilitres of cool liquid were dispensed.

With one last vicious tug the needle was unceremoniously wrenched from the now deep, bloody gash on the side of his neck. Sherlock whimpered reflexively against the pain and was jerked up into a standing position; back tight against the torso of the large man, his nostrils filled with the vile scent of the gruff, wheezing breath that warmed his cheek. The taller man blocking his view had moved out of the way and Sherlock could finally take in their blurred surroundings. They were stood in the middle of a filthy alleyway. There were grimy, red brick walls on either side of them and rubbish cluttered the concrete at their feet. Before he could attempt to deduce much more, however, the man at his back tugged him harshly again and he was half dragged around the corner, deeper into the hazy maze of backstreets.

He brain was beginning to feel fuzzier and fuzzier now that he could feel the new, unfamiliar drug flooding his system. His hands and feet were almost entirely numb. He tried desperately to fight against it, the inevitable desire to sleep, terrified of the consequences of falling unconscious. He felt sick. He had no idea what this drug was or what it might do to him! What were these strange men going to do, where were they going to take him? There was a harsh ringing in his ears; he could see little starbursts, patterns printed onto the backs of his eyelids. They were so beautiful…

_NO. _

_STOP._

Gasping, he dragged himself back to semi-consciousness, forcing himself to focus on the pain in his neck, his, arms, his knees… _STAY AWAKE._

"Schhtopp…" he moaned quietly, slurring, "Lemmego."

Distantly through the loud ringing echoing in his ears he could hear the deep rumble of unfamiliar laughter all around him. He was abrubtly aware of something wet and sticky dripping down his front and it took him a moment to realise that it was his own vomit. The men were saying something. He didn't know what. He attempted to struggle once more, pulling weakly at the big, fat hands holding him, but it hurt and he just wanted it to stop.

The pain finally began to subside as he was shoved down onto the hard, wet ground. His vomit-stained shirt was ripped off him, buttons pinging everywhere as his vision started to black out around the edges. He felt numb, hot and dry all at once. He was dazedly aware of mocking laughter above him and freezing concrete below him.

The last thing he remembered, with grimy water soaking through the back of his shirt and his arms pinned to the ground high above his head, was the cold, greasy hand snaking its way towards his trousers and tugging at his belt.

He never found out why they did it.

**Don't forget to leave a review! And yes, I'm sorry for not updating my other stories... I'm a bad author. Please don't hate me.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes: I wasn't planning to post this for a while – I'm actually on holiday at the moment – but the response to the first chapter was so encouraging that I found myself unable to not write! Hope you enjoy this… **

**Chapter 2:**

He dreamt he was floating, high up on a cloud above London. He could hear the rhythmic swish of birds' wings as they passed through the air alongside him, accompanied by the occasional whistle as they called to one another.

Birds were awfully like humans, he pondered, always flying in packs, never wanting to be alone, needing to stick together to survive. How predictable.

How boring.

London below him was so beautiful. Little, moving, yellowy-orange car lights winking up at him in the twilight, zigzagging in and out of the soft, immobile glow of the houses, with the great monstrosity of famous monuments like the London Eye looming over them, almost as though watching over the city. The shocking deep blue of the Thames sliced clean through the picture, as though jaggedly cutting it in half. The closer he got, the clearer the shapes and colours of the city he knew so well became. He could almost feel every quiver of it; the city, its ever-thrumming heart, never pausing for sleep.

The cloud was taking him steadily lower and lower, he realised belatedly. He could make out tiny streets and roads, winding inwards and then outwards again, like an endless, fathomless maze. So many millions of insignificant people, going about their daily lives; he could just about make them out, traveling in groups, gossiping about god only knows what. Just like thousands of flocks of tiny birds.

He raised his eyes skyward again and gasped aloud at the sight which greeted him: Thousands of birds spiralling onwards and upwards in a never-ending circle. Mostly they were pigeons, but some, he noted, were crows, others were clearly squawking, grey seagulls and there was even the odd raven.

However it was the magnificent creature right in the centre that most captured his attention. A swan. Pure, gleaming white; the very picture of elegance. Wings perfectly streamlined, stretched out to their fullest extent, head tilted upwards at the end of a fully elongated neck.

It was beautiful.

And it was alone.

How peculiar, Sherlock found himself thinking. Swans mate for life, of course – perhaps this one hasn't found its mate yet…

Although statistically speaking there couldn't possibly be a perfect match out there for everyone, whether they were bird or beast. Highly improbable.

He looked down once more and was shocked to see that they had lost a significant amount of height; they were floating softly down towards the edge of the city, where the light was more sporadic. It looked dark and dank and grimy, the crumbling red bricks on the buildings coated with layer upon layer of sheer filth.

There was a sudden clap of thunder overhead and a flash of lightning followed close behind. The heavens opened and it began to rain. Even at a distance Sherlock could hear it splash heavily onto the pavement below; he was descending faster and faster now, getting closer and closer to the grimy cobbles, before the little cloud was upturned entirely and he was thrown the remaining distance onto the hard, stony ground below.

He was drenched from head to toe entirely by now, yet he somehow felt hot, humid and clammy all at once. He lay on the ground writhing, tangled up in something invisible, completely unable to get free. It was suddenly all dark and he couldn't see a thing.

"Sherlock…"

There was the sound of deep, humiliating laughter surrounding him, as though yet more invisible people were leering out at him. It triggered something inside him, some memory, though precisely what eluded him.

"Sherlock?"

They were calling his name now, he wanted to run but he couldn't, he had to escape, but he was caught up in thick, starchy cotton-

"Sherlock!"

Abruptly he jerked awake, sitting up immediately. A cold sweat was pouring off him, gluing his hair flat to his forehead. The once crisp hospital blankets were now a twisted mess pooled in his lap. There was a new gash bleeding freely on his arm, presumably the result of his restless sleep. He couldn't have ripped out the heart monitor though - he could hear it beeping regularly in the background still – must've only been a drip.

There were various other aches and pains all over his body, but he quickly decided he couldn't give any less of a shit: After having flexing a few toes and fingers, he had swiftly affirmed that his body was still fully functional.

Finally he raised his sore eyes and after blinking several times to clear his vision, was able to take in the rest of the room and, more significantly, his brother stood at the foot of his bed. Slowly, he realised that it was Mycroft's calling him that had finally managed to wake him.

Fat as ever, Sherlock deduced at first glance, mind still fuzzy as he tried to shake off the effects of the general anaesthetic. He next noticed that Mycroft was wearing a quite frankly alarming expression, one of total fear, a glaring crack in his normal mask that oozed calm and control. And it was this, not the fact that he had no recollection of how he had ended up here, which worried Sherlock the most.

He was certainly no stranger to hospitals – they practically felt like a second home after all the tests his family had insisted he undergo as a child and, far more recently of course, there had been those two rather tedious instances of drug overdoses. They weren't serious, of course – he certainly wasn't stupid, it was merely essential to work out one's limits. Yet, despite the so-called gravity of those situations, Mycroft's expressions then bore very little resemblance to this, his current one.

As he flopped dramatically back onto his pillows, Sherlock duly noted that this was the first time he had seen his brother rendered completely speechless. He stood there stiffly, about a metre from the bed, back ram-rod straight and firmly clutching at his stupid umbrella as though it were a walking stick to steady him.

Sherlock regarded him with animosity for a few moments, trying in vain to deduce the precise reason for his worry, before cocking an eyebrow as though to say 'Well get on with it then!'

Still Mycroft remained silent.

"Oh, spit it out, Mikey, it can't possibly be as bad as all that!"

Mycroft took a deep breath and then slowly walked around to sit stiffly on the plastic hospital chair by the bed.

"Sherlock," he said rather awkwardly, "How much do you remember from that night?"

"Which 'night'?"

His brother rolled his eyes and sighed at his petty tone, before-

"Three nights ago, Sherlock, when you, high as a kite and alone in some filthy establishment, were dragged off by a group of thugs, drugged and then very nearly sexually assaulted. How many other such nights have there been recently? Don't play stupid with me, we both know you can do better. So, do tell, dear brother, exactly how much do you remember?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. His head seemed to be spinning. He couldn't remember anything of course, though he suspected his memories would probably return shortly – clearly a side effect of whatever drug it was, combined with the obvious trauma of the incident.

Mycroft, ever the mind-reader, Sherlock thought bitterly, had undoubtedly read him like a book. He was trying to stare him down. Sherlock turned his head away to face the window, sulky expression firmly in place and said nothing.

"Sherlock," insisted Mycroft, in what he obviously thought was a soothing tone – clearly he was unaware of the irritation caused by his mere presence in the room. "The doctor will be coming soon to explain the- the situation. They've run some tests. And you should know the results."

"But, obviously, you already know them." Sherlock spat out in Mycroft's general direction. "I do already know I have a minor cocaine addiction, Mycroft, so what else can there possibly be that's so serious for pity's sake! Even if those morons drugged me with something truly awful, there is nothing that won't wear off with time." He head was aching. Why couldn't Mycroft just go away and bother someone else?

"Oh, if only that were the case, brother mine. Do stop being so ridiculous and take the time to use your brain for just one second."

"You are being the ridiculous one here. I see no immediate problem." He haughtily flung the covers off himself and attempted to get up, forgetting of course, that he was attached to several different drips and monitors. Cursing, he struggled furiously for a moment, before admitting defeat and slumping back down on the bed, exclaiming "For God's sake, why can't you just leave me alone!"

"What on earth is going on in here?"

In all the commotion, neither man had noticed the doctor come in, though they would both, of course, be loath to admit it.

Sherlock groaned in further frustration and scrubbed angrily at his bloodshot eyes.

"Mr. Holmes, I must insist that you get back into bed. Now, please!" She exclaimed at his apparent reluctance to do so.

Sherlock sighed, exaggeratedly, before doing as she asked.

"Now, what on earth can you possibly have to tell me that I don't already know? And do get on with it; I have a time sensitive experiment to get back to."

And so she told him. He listened at first impatiently, but then much more intently as she explained that no, thank goodness, he had not been sexually assaulted – Mycroft's people had found him before then; yes, he did have an addiction to cocaine, for which rehabilitation was strongly recommended; the drug with which he had been forcefully injected was Rohypnol, the date rape drug and unfortunately the needle that had been used was not clean. It had previously been used by (or on) someone who was HIV positive. And despite the incredibly high odds in his favour, it was confirmed that the virus had been passed on to him.

Sherlock took it all in carefully, before asking a few subdued questions, most of which he already knew the answer to, but they bought him time to think.

Was there a cure? No, but technology was progressing quickly enough that with treatment - which he would have to take for the rest of his life - it was most likely that he would live to old age.

What exactly was his life expectancy? They were very lucky to have caught the virus so early – it was likely that, with treatment, it wouldn't progress to serious symptoms for a good long while, if ever. However without treatment, his life expectancy would be up to 10 years from now.

How likely was it that a cure would be discovered in the near future? Unsure.

Suddenly his experiment at home (the one on the decay of human fingers) didn't seem all that pressing after all.

**Don't forget to leave a comment! I don't bite. Mostly.**

**Apologies if anything is medically inaccurate - while I have tried to research thoroughly, I have no personal experience in this field.**

**Finally, don't expect another update for at least another three weeks, I'm holidaying a bit more and then visiting family and won't have any wifi access! *cries* So, I'm really sorry about that too! In the meantime, feel free to check out my other works though! (hint hint) **


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